


wolf at my window, howling for my heart

by CodeNameTapida



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Little Shit, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, I havn't read the book nor will I ever, Injury Recovery, Magic, Mike Hanlon is a Good Friend, Mike is just a little obsessed with plants, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Monster Hunters, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, They're all 15-16 btw, Werewolf Stanley, Werewolves, Witch Richie, Witches, aiming for minimum 2500 words per chapter :), blood mention, death mention, movie verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodeNameTapida/pseuds/CodeNameTapida
Summary: It was supposed to be a normal summer just like any other in Derry, in fact, the most exciting thing to happen this year so far was Mike's sudden interest in the town's flora and fauna. But when Richie finds a stray dog in the woods and decides to bring it home fully intending to take it to the vet the next morning, what happens when suddenly one lost dog turns into the harboring of a werewolf on the run from a bloodthirsty hunter hot on its trail? Can he keep the secret from five nosy kids, the town's local psycho, and more importantly, the rest of the world?
Relationships: Mike Hanlon & Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 14
Kudos: 15





	1. here there be monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang hangs out at the clubhouse, Richie gets lost going home.
> 
> warning: tiny mention of dried blood in the beginning, it's really nothing

Crashing through trees and bushes and brittle branches. Paper-thin cuts taking residence on thick skin. Spurred on solely by the adrenaline flooding the system; for the pursuit, for the chase! Lush foliage whizzed by in a blur. The bounding of heavy steps racing on the forest floor was loud, but a beating heart drumming in the ears was louder.

Similar footfalls sounded close behind, growing fainter by the second. All thoughts flew out of his brain in their own trickling flow, all but the need to escape. Deeper into the woods, darker turned the sky; crowded bunches of bottle-green leaves suffocating sunlight. Labored breathing carried the need for rest, to recover from wounds well crusted over with blood, but pushing onward was a must. Rest, and he may certainly die.

Rest only when the weight of fatigue beats your body into the earth.

Somewhere deep in Derry’s woods, a lone howl sounds.

. . . . .

The wind, only quickened by his fast peddling, blew his hair askew, but it’s not like his messy, raven locks were usually that neat, to begin with. Summer’s heat was not forgiving, not that it ever was anyway. Maybe if he just willed his wheels to go a little faster no one will mention his tardiness or his growing pit stains. Of course, with his luck, the others would have an entire questionnaire reminiscent of those stupid “all about me” papers everyone had to fill in at the beginning of each new school year ready at the tips of their tongues.

See, Richie Tozier was all for being fashionably late, but this was a little far. He’d completely forgotten about the planned clubhouse gathering to help kickstart Mike’s writing for that book of his. Something about Derry’s history if memory serves him right?

Derry didn’t seem all that exciting to Richie personally, just your usual dismissive adults and asshole classmates. The most interesting thing Richie could think of off the top of his head was how ol’ Benny boy managed to put the wonderful clubhouse together all by himself two years back.

Right, the clubhouse.

Pushing forward, he smoothly flew down the street. He’d already been a whole hour and a half late by the time he left his house, and only living a good 8-minute bike ride away, there was no way he was getting out of a scolding from Bev or Eddie.

It’s not like he didn’t know this project of Mike’s was important. He did! He just had something equally important to attend to that took way longer than intended. Something he’d rather keep tucked away in secret, knowing his neighbors. The Losers were very supportive of modern ideas and having an open mind and all the jazz, obviously, but this was personal. Life or death, if you will. 

He thought of his friends, in all their joyous and rambunctious glory. It was hard to pick favorites. Impossible, in his own opinion, with how few people in the pool there were to choose from. They each had their strengths and weaknesses when it came to Richie's antics anyway, making hopping around from person to person throwing jokes and quips so much more fun.

Ben and Eddie were easy to fluster and choke up with his more inappropriate humor, but only Eddie shot back with just as much fire. Mike and Beverly were a little harder to trip up, though Mike was so pleasant to be around and took everything with such calm stride Richie almost felt bad purposely picking on the boy. Beverly always liked to flip the board on him, turning playful banter into serious talks. She only thought she had him figured out.

Usually, he had just as much fun chatting with Bill, having known him the longest, there were a lot of embarrassing memories ripe with mortifying, gag material. They were each other's first friend, which was funny and convenient and a little like destiny; a boy who couldn't stop talking and one who couldn't seem to get his words out at all.

Unfortunately, the redhead had been going through some tougher stuff as of late so Richie had laid off and gave him space. Grief took many forms, and Richie could respect that. In this case, Bill had been quiet these past months, pouring over medieval books of fantasy and fiction. Well, fiction, as far as the average person cared.

The metal joints connecting the bike’s well-worn handles and rusty neck squeaked an ungodly sound as Richie turned a corner. Mental note, get that checked as soon as humanly possible. The last passenger his poor ears needed when going for joyrides was a screaming banshee.

Taking another turn, Richie’s eyes finally landed on the bridge that would take him into the woods. Oh! The kissing bridge would definitely be something worth mentioning on paper, because doing the nasty against rotting wood is sooo romantic. Teenage boys and girls looking to makeout on an ancient bridge covered in dirt and bugs. Good old lovemaking that every book deserving a read has, just some raunchy fun in between all the boring parts that came with living in a town that won’t move on from the past. He’d let Mike know.

Veering off the main road, Richie took to an unseen path without much thought.

He’d ridden through these backwoods so many times, following the route leading to the clubhouse has become almost secondhand nature. If he focused real hard he'd even be able to point out familiar rock formations or uniquely twisted trees.

At long last, his wheels skidded to a swift halt as he reached a small clearing. Other bikes were already thrown to the side, telling Richie that all five of his friends were, in fact, there. Richie hopped off his trusty steed and let it fall to the ground in a similar fashion as the others. He spotted Bill’s beloved Silver further away from the main heap of child transport machines, propped up against a larger tree’s trunk with care. Boy did Bill love that bike.

Taking a comically deep inhale, puffing out his chest in the process, the teen made his way to where the hatch to the clubhouses’ only entrance was already open. Friendly chatter could be heard from down the short ladder leading inside. Well, it was now or never.

The ladder to the underground room was old but sturdy, Ben had made it himself using some leftover wood from the Hanlon farm. As Richie skipped the last three bars and landed on the dusty floorboards, conversation quickly petered out. All eyes on Richie, just the way he liked it.

Eddie was the first to say something, marching up to the newest arrival as he spoke, “Look who finally shows up! You’re nearly two hours late, dipshit.” True to Kaspbrak fashion, the words came out fast and sharp.

He wore a plain, pale yellow shirt with the useless buttons up at the neck. A black fanny pack was tied tight around his midsection as if wound any looser and it would fall right off. Richie refrained from pointing out that Eddie was halfway to cosplaying a cute, little bumblebee only because he knew that was the beloved fanny pack Bill had gotten him for his 14th birthday. Eddie held it very near and dear to his heart even now, nearly two years later.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth? Cause I sure do!” Richie bellowed, knocking his elbow to the shorter boy’s arm a couple of times while snickering before getting shoved away. 

“How original,” a familiar female voice commented from behind him. Swiveling on the spot with a crooked smile on his face, Richie spotted Beverly leaning on one of the many supports. She sported her usual muddy green overalls and striped shirt. Despite having only shared a quick quip, he could see the curious glint in her eye. She too, just like everyone else present, wanted to know what took him so long.

He’d have to come up with something.

But that’s not to say he could avoid the subject for as long as possible.

“Well, I can’t always showcase new material, missus Marsh. I have to save the really good stuff for Broadway!” He sauntered over to a chair and got comfortable. His unbuttoned flannel, a bold, baby blue checkered with yellow stripes, hung loosely at his sides, showing off his sweet power rangers shirt. Against his rather plain beige shorts, this was not the worst clothing combo he’s ever worn in public, though his parents might say otherwise.

Next to him, Mike and Bill are flipping through a big hardcover book with thick paper and cramped writing. He couldn’t get a look at the title but a black and tan picture of a pretty bunch of flowers gave him a general idea. They were grouped in little clusters and grew upwards, long, and narrow. There was a joke that’d make Eddie throw punches in there somewhere.

Ben looked up at his presence, “Hey Richie, good to finally see you.” He had a pleasant smile on his round face and his voice was kind and non-intrusive, a breath of fresh air surrounded by prying eyes. This was building up to be far from the audience he usually strived for.

“We already went to the library and got some books on the flora and fauna of Maine.” Mike gestured with a nod of his head to two small stacks of books, nine in total, on the other end of the table. “Maybe you’ll find something interesting in there.”

Richie thought for a moment but decided to investigate the bounty later. He conveyed as much to the gentle giant of a friend with a nod and halfhearted hum. 

Silence fell all too quickly. 

A hopefully subtle darting of the eyes to gauge his surroundings told him that, indeed, he’d become the main character. He struggled to come up with a deep metaphor that fit the mood of his situation. A bundle of buckwheat to a swarm of honey bees? The shiny lure to a school of sprats? Maybe a lone chicken wing fished from the dumpster flanked by greedy alley cats!?

Okay, admittedly that last one was a little weird to picture. Like, really, Richie? Relating to half-eaten dump food and gluing your friends’ faces to some rabid animals was a little out there, even for your tastes. Abandoning that thought process, his eyes landed back on Ben’s, whose previously comforting innocence was all too soon replaced with an inquisitive gleam. 

Oh, to be a teen with a friend group wholly composed of nosy wannabe know-it-alls...

While his initial plan was to wait out the inevitable questioning, maybe spearheading the ordeal himself was the better option. More control and all. Anyone and their mother knew Richie thrived when steering the conversation, a captain in converse if you will.

“Alright, alright, listen closely ‘cause you’re only hearing this once!” Richie’s hands went up in casual surrender. “I’m sorry.” The two words were spoken clearly and evenly, chancing an easy escape through complete genuity, rare on his part, or so they believed anyway.

Not a second later a smirky voice piped up, “Sorry about what, exactly?”

Eddie looked smug, with a look vaguely reminiscent to that of what a parent gives to a child who overshot the baseball through a window, a look ready to draw things out and drive the nail in. He wasn’t mad of course, none of them really were, too used to having someone goof off and forget the time now and then. Kaspbrak, nonetheless, expected an answer.

“Sorry I didn’t want to sit around getting shushed for two hours.” Richie took a moment to push up his glasses with his middle finger, looking directly at Eddie alone. If it was on purpose or pure coincidence, the world will never know. “Happy, special K?”

Eddie bristled at the nickname, never having found the grand appeal in being reduced to a brand of cereal, apparently. The others watched with mild amusement, bickering like this certainly wasn’t anything new. Richie gave a lop-sided grin, ready for a sally back.

“Hmph! Maybe it’s good we left without you! In fact—” 

“Suh-so that’s it? You just ditched?” Bill interrupted loudly, cutting off what would have been the beginning of a tangent. It was probably for the best.

“Well, I actually fell asleep,” dull excuse compared to his usual spiel, “but thank god I did! These books look like some early 1800s era shit, no color or anything!” His voice was loud and outraged in the dramatic fashion that’d best suit his maneuver out of all this verbal prodding.

“It’s okay, Richie.” With Hanlon on his side, his absence wasn’t that big a deal anymore since they’d all gone out for Mike in the first place. He ignored Eddie’s advice to “just get a fucking alarm like a normal person” the next time they had a group outing like this and got up to inspect the library haul.

Most of the books were dark reds and browns and worn at the edges, but in a well-loved kind of way, like someone kept coming back to read them. You’d have to be really invested in what vegetables to grow on Maine soil to wear down a gardening book this bad. 

As an afterthought, he took care in showcasing to Mike the pros of including of the infamous kissing bridge in his research, but no one saw the potential something like that had, if Eddie’s disgust was anything to go by. The public just wasn’t prepared for the Tozier charm yet it seemed. He resumed his scrounging.

“Taking something home?” Beverly asked, startling him out of his thoughts on invasive bugs.

“Guess so.” If he took a book home maybe everyone would get off his back when he inevitably skips the side of this project that involved research. 

He looked at the book Bev caught him within his hands; swamp green, moderately thick, miraculously straight-edged papers. There was a printed picture of a painted bird sitting on a branch on the cover; pretty simplistic looking but charming with its beaded brown eyes and orange tummy, a robin if Richie knew any better.

“Didn’t take you for a nature guy.” She took the book from him as she commented.

Opening to a random page she chuckled and turned the book back over so he could see. 

Looking down at the block of boring writing, his attention immediately centered on the animal in question; a small thing, round and grey with a spike of hair that reminded him of the triangular heads the red birds up north had. He didn’t get what was so funny about it.

Beverly clarified, “Tufted titmouse definitely sounds like something you’d use in a joke, maybe birds really are your true calling.”

Oh! The name. He missed it when actively avoiding reading any of the long complicated words people obsessed with tiny flying noise machines used to describe said winged menaces.

“Heh, I don’t know, they’re loud, and not in the genius way I am. There's this one fucker living in the tree next to my window who wakes me up every morning with its whistling,” he paused to tap his chin in mock deep thought, “though it could just be my Mr. Williker…”

“Thought you slept in this morning?” It was a question but she didn’t ask it like one, seeing through his bullshit. She didn’t even take the opportunity to riff on his neighbor; an older man who always mowed his lawn outrageously early in the morning. 

“Well, ha, the funny thing is—”

“Hey, you can find a ton of these near the farm!”

Everyone turned to Mike, who pointed to a box on the page he was reading with an inked drawing of a plant; tall bundles of small flowers. There was a lot of text that Richie couldn’t read from this far, even with his thick glasses. Fortunately, it didn’t matter what he could or could not see because Mike started to share what he’d learned with the class.

“They’re called Purple Loosestrife. They’re an invasive species from Europe and Asia. You can’t see here but they’re supposed to be purple.” The teen looked simply delighted talking about the flower, a wide smile on his face. “I’ve seen them grow near the north of the farm; I always thought they were Fireweed.”

“Look at this,” Ben scanned over something, pointed, and read-aloud “here, ‘While the Lythrum salicaria may look pretty, they’re an exceptionally invasive plant that when left to grow unchecked can take years to remove properly’. It gives a way to get rid of it but it says it would take a lot of diligence, it might not be best to have them so close to the farm, Mike.”

“How buh-big is the patch alruh- already? If you’re gonna dig it up, I can help.” Bill offered.

“Maybe too much for just me, of course, you can help.” 

Heh, ‘bunch of lovebirds they were! Bill and Mike seemed to drift into their own conversation, even Ben gets up and grabs a different book to read by himself. Richie caught Beverly’s eye when he went back to sit down, the contact didn’t hold long, both kept quiet.

. . . . .

Chatter lulled considerably after that. Eddie had to leave pretty early, his curfew ever present even in the summer. Beverly said her goodbyes, not an hour later, and if Ben offered to ride back to town with her no one said anything. By the time Richie was ready to head home, the sun had just begun to set and Mike and Bill were still there. He would volunteer to help with packing up, but the two still seemed to be in their little bubble.

Leaving the clubhouse and kicking off on his bike was uneventful. Not really bothering with paying attention to his pedaling, he let instinct lead him back home. Richie’s mind was preoccupied, not with what was said today but with what wasn’t. 

He’d felt off since this morning, maybe not enough to trouble him into actually confronting the feeling but enough to be noticed now that he was alone with his thoughts. It didn’t feel personal, if that made sense, more of a pull than internal conflict, like something in the air demanded his immediate and rapt attention.

And Richie gave it just that, mindlessly passing trees and going deeper and deeper into the woods without really realizing, just as buried in the forest as he was in his head. This was worse than his trip going towards the clubhouse, at least then he watched the road and passively acknowledged the things moving around him. Now, time flowed like rich, yellow honey; slow, yes, but too shrouded in orange-gold to see anything.

After only a few minutes, though it felt like hours and seconds all at once, Richie reached an open area and abruptly stopped. The tugging was gone. A cloud had lifted from his eyes as he finally blinked back to the present.

The extra weight in his bike’s mesh basket from that stupid bird book he decided to take with him helped ground his senses back into reality. However, the looming basswoods that circled a clearing of dirt and brush and the vastness of the woods with only a lazy breeze set him on edge even with it still being light out.

Not unlike himself, everything stood still. 

Until it didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that!! Next chapter actual exciting stuff happens I swear. I probably chose the worst time to start this cause school's been a bitch but I'm just too excited to hold off posting and I need feedback to shove into the motivation machine. I can't wait to get into the juicy stuff with werewolves and magic, hope you stick around for it!!


	2. apple slices for the severely conflicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie finds an injured stray in the woods and decides to take it home. His mother delivers some mortifying news.
> 
> tw: some minor injury description and blood mention here and there, Stan is hurt after all!

A frantic rustling sounded from below the short cliff in front of him. He couldn’t move. One foot was still on the peddle of his bike, the other planted firmly on the ground. Summer hung heavy in the air, but he certainly wasn’t sweating out of exhaustion.

Richie didn’t know how long he stood there, completely frozen. For minutes, nothing happened, silent besides the mysterious commotion. It was a surprise his eyes hadn’t dried up at this point. Then again, he couldn’t even tell if he was blinking or not. Feeling weightless yet heavy with a rock in your stomach, was strange. 

Eventually, invisible strings guiding his movements, he carefully lifted his leg over the chipping seat and ever so gently laid his bike down in the grass. He didn’t trust himself riding off without making too much noise anyway. Actually, it was a wonder how he rode in without being heard unless he had just been going way slower than it had felt in the moment.

Things were just going in one ear and out the other, except... with physical actions? Like right now. Suddenly Richie was crouching his way over to the side of the clearing to the spot that lacked trees, like an opening. A gateway. To _what_ , is what scared Richie most.

Something was kicking around down there, snarling.

But also whimpering, albeit quieter than the angry huffing. It was animal and it was hurt. This almost convinced Richie to take a peek over the ledge before remembering that animals who were hurt or cornered tend to lash out more.

The last thing he wanted was to go home with a limp or some nasty scar. Or worse, not getting back home at all. Maybe there’s some dangerous guy stuck down there, like a murderer. Hell, who’s to say it isn’t a fucking bear? Like an entire grizzly bear just hanging out in Derry. Or was it black bears that lived in Maine? 

Richie doesn’t remember, nor does he care! 

When did his hands start shaking? He could feel the uneven press of dirt and overgrown grass against his chest, stomach, and legs. When did he get on the ground anyway? That thing was still making little barks and grunts of distress. He was listening so closely and for so long he hadn’t realized he had stopped breathing. All too soon, Richie’s body forced a desperate gasp for air. Only one, but it was loud in the empty woods. 

The struggling from beneath the drop-off ceased at once.

Richie was paralyzed.

This was it. This was how he died.

Maybe he was dead already because that’s what it felt like. Some kind of harsh, ever biting limbo; where you feel everything and nothing all at once. An unwelcome nipping at the skin like faint static.

It was still sort of light out, with the sun casting long shadows with spindly fingers, but Richie felt like he was walking in the dark, where you’re tensing every other second and every little sound and touch is amplified tenfold. He honestly felt like he was going to jump out of his skin the moment either _he_ , or the beast below made even the tiniest of noises. 

Which is what made his next move so ridiculous.

Throwing caution to the wind, his body moving to its own accord, he peers over the edge.

Two big, piercing eyes shot straight into his soul. It’s the first thing he catches onto and he can’t look away. Stony in its gaze, the creature wouldn't look away either.

This time, Richie knows he’s not blinking. If he looks away for even a second he’ll miss something, for better or for worse his brain hasn’t decided. Its left eye was twitching some, Richie couldn’t help but notice.

Suddenly, a low, gargled clicking flew across the air. At first, it almost sounded like an angry squirrel but Richie knew better when a tiny bird whizzed by and into a tree. A chickadee. Richie had seen them around before and could usually tell by its distinct chirping.

The beast broke the uncomfortable stare to follow the cheerful bird’s singing. In the moment of reprieve, the teen took the opportunity to properly take in what he’d come face to face with. Thick brown fur with lighter patches around the legs and ears.

Definitely canine, and large, way larger than any dog Richie’s seen in person. He’s even seen pictures of some of the largest dog breeds in the world too, like the Great Dane or the prestigious Dogue de Bord-blah-blah or whatever, but even those didn’t compare with this thing. It could absolutely kill him no problem and he did not feel like running for his life right now.

Though running might be out of the equation for the dog. Only two of its legs were visible, as it was laying down, but Richie’s gaze was immediately trained on the icky browns and reds caked into the curly fur on its hind leg, blood no doubt. Two long gashes raked its thigh, only partially crusted over so the deepest parts were still glistening crimson. Richie held back from throwing up in his mouth at the sight.

When the injured limb, that he was still looking at but more looking through as he fought the urge to turn tail and hurl in the bushes, tensed and curled self consciously Richie realized Dawg was staring at him again. There was a newfound pleading in its eyes, and it was that, the swaying desperation tinged with poorly concealed panic and suspicion, that egged Richie into helping this poor bastard.

Pushing off the warm ground with a huff, he inspected the decline that separated him and the canine companion to be; steep but full of rocks. He could easily hop his way down, but how would he get back up with sixty pounds (at least) of extra cargo?

Fuck it! Waltzing from small boulder to flat stone, Richie made his way down in due time. He made a show of sticking his arms out and twirling once, twice, before facing the other. Dawg didn’t look too startled at his theatrics, thankfully. Hopefully, that meant the next part of his plan would be a little easier.

“Okay, buddy. I’m just gonna step a bit closer, y’know, just a lil’ shimmy over.” Hands up in front of him, he made very careful steps towards the animal, who by all means, looked rather bored.

No matter! As soon as he got this doggy all cleaned and fed he’d give ‘em the ol’ Tozier charm. As the distance between the two reached approximately ten feet, Dawg straightened up and became much more alert. Richie stopped walking.

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you, dude.” While his hands were still up in a nonviolent manner, Richie hadn’t moved any closer. That fear was still there, lingering in the back of his mind like a cockroach stuck under the fridge; you know it’s there and you dread going near, but think of all the other word shit crawling around down below. No way.

They were stuck in another eye-lock for a few minutes, but eventually, Dawg blinked owlishly. Richie took it as a sign of generous peace gifted by the gods above and continued his hesitant march. 

He stood directly in front of it, its eyes were waiting, daring Richie to risk getting his hand bitten off. No, there was that pleading again. All the bad things seemed to be in Richie’s head. It took a great deal to bury those thoughts away and reach out.

The curled fur on its forehead was light and a little coarse, but it probably just needed a good wash. Dawg looked unamused.

Throwing Richie’s handoff, it shakily started lifting itself. The staggering startled Richie back a few steps but he quickly came forward with arms outstretched.

“Woah there!” Despite the hobbling, it still managed an even pace.

Richie jogged after it, “Hey, slow down! Don’t wantcha to hurt that leg any more than it already is, might need to get it amputated, bud.”

Dawg let out a huff at that. They eventually stopped at a lower incline, and Dawg turned to look at him, like asking for support. Richie let it lean on him on the way up. He faltered when they passed his bike, still laying on its side in the grass, but it could wait.

. . . . .

Above the outskirts of the woods, the setting sun made what clouds roamed the sky a light pink. Grass morphed to gravel and then to cement skidding underfoot.

Richie kept a watchful eye as he crossed back into the main part of town. Dawg at this point was only walking on three legs and kept the injured one curled up in the air.

At Dawg’s hesitance, Richie reassured “Camera shy, huh? Don’t worry, boy. Summer or not there aren't usually that many people out here after the sun sets.” His house wasn’t the furthest thing from here but it wasn’t the closest either. They stuck mostly to sidewalks Richie knew would be empty, lights off, curtains drawn. 

As he had hoped, they thankfully didn’t run into anybody and made it to the Tozier household in one piece.

Richie found his house key as his companion fidgeted beside him. As soon as he got the door open it was trodding inside.

“Woah, woah, woah, hold on, boy! Wait!” He pulled the door shut as he rushed in front of the poor dog. It looked tired with its head bowed, but Richie really didn’t want to get blood on the couch. He swiveled around with a final “Hold still, please.” 

Back from the hallway closet with one of the Tozier’s rattier towels in hand, he splayed it out on the kitchen floor. Dawg hadn’t moved, as instructed, and waited for direction.

“Alrighty! You can lay here, big guy.” Richie motioned while smoothing any creases in the fabric and patting it a few times for emphasis. The other got the hint and limped over, before resting similarly to how it had in the forest. Richie grabbed a big, plastic bowl from one of the cupboards and filled it with water from the sink.

Leftovers of his disastrous experiment from this morning still plagued the countertop, Richie could even see a small scorch mark on the smooth surface. Yeesh, how’s he gonna explain that one to dear, old dad? “Yeah, sorry, I was playing around with homemade spells again. Nearly singed my eyebrows off!” It was the truth but it didn’t sound all too responsible. He'll just have to deal with it later.

“Okay,” As he placed the bowl on the floor, Dawg waited politely for him to finish speaking, “I’m gonna be frank, I don’t have a dog or nothing, so I don’t have any ‘all-po’ or whatever Mike feeds his rascals. You’re gonna have to give me a minute to think.” At that, it began to drink, careful of spilling anything even on the towel.

As Richie searched the kitchen, he chuckled aloud, “You know, I’ve been calling you Dawg in my head this whole time. Like, d-a-w-g, Dawg, ‘cause it makes you cooler than your average d-o-g, dog... Hope you’re okay with that, boy.” Nothing but a “hur-ruff” in response.

Richie went to check the fridge for ideas; leftover lasagna, chicken salad, frozen soup? Yeah, no. Crouching down he opened one of the drawers at the bottom; oranges, tomatoes, apples... Apples! 

“I always see Mike giving Sammy and Cinnamon apple slices as snacks, I’m sure you’d gobble them down just as fast,” Richie commented approvingly as he rinsed the fruit off. Setting up a grainy cutting board, knife, and shiny granny smith apple, he went to preparing small chunks an animal could easily swallow.

Sliding two or three big slices over for himself, he picked up the cutting board and, in lieu of using another bowl, simply placed it alongside the water on the floor. Dawg ate only one piece at a time.

“Wow, never thought I’d see a dog as careful with their food as Sams, he’s always spacin’ things out and stuff. He won’t eat unless you’re watching him either, but it’s probably for the best. Cinnamon gulfs everything down so fast we’re all afraid she’ll choke someday.” Richie leaned facing Dawg with both his elbows balancing on the counter behind him.

He laughed to himself, “It’s like the ying-yang of eating, right? They benefit each other.” Twin hazel eyes bored into his own with annoyed disinterest, like it was begging him to just let it eat in peace.

All these eerily human looks were sort of freaking him out.

Richie left the kitchen in search of a medkit while his friend finished its apple. The wooden floorboards were cold under his socked feet as he made his way to the bathroom. The lights buzzed softly when he turned them on, it was good white noise.

The cabinet over the sink didn’t have anything bigger than those square band-aids, and a quick sweep of the compartment under the sink didn’t unearth anything useful, just soaps and toilet paper. 

On second thought, toilet paper might work for now. He grabbed a new roll from the packaging and headed back to the kitchen. He didn’t like the hard tiled floor and longed for the fuzzy carpet in his room.

As hoped for, Dawg was still laying down where Richie left it. He dumped the cutting board, which had been licked clean, into the sink. 

“Sorry, dude, this is all I could find.” Munching on his apple slices, he held up the toilet paper. It looked conflicted at the prospect but its feelings didn’t necessarily matter right now, its wounds were still a dark, ruby red around the middle.

Seems those cuts were much deeper than Richie had first thought.

He tentatively crept forwards. Expressing caution, Richie ripped off a strip of three squares and let it land on the wound, blood immediately drowning the white of the soft material. When the other didn’t show any signs of aggression or extreme pain, Richie laid a few more strips in a criss-cross pattern on its fur. Still, thick blood seeped through.

Just as Richie was about to bear the process of removing the wet toilet paper, stained crimson, the sound of a car door closing came from outside. Then a pair of footsteps. Two pairs drawing straight to the front entrance

He froze. It was his parents. It was date night, weren’t they supposed to be out for another hour? Doesn't matter now! Richie could already hear the telltale clinking of keys despite the door still being unlocked from when he first barged in nearly forty minutes prior. He rushed to stand and cover as much of the giant dog that lay on their kitchen floor.

“Richard! You’re out of your room, not meddling with any experiments, right?” His mother teased the moment she spotted him from her place at the open door, her off-white dress swaying at her knees.

His father wasn’t too far behind, carrying a plastic bag in one hand. Wentworth didn’t say anything but gave the boy a playful yet pointed look. Richie must’ve seemed nervous.

“Well uh, ha, you won’t believe what I found in the—”

Of course, the “what” from the woods chose that moment to heave itself off the floor. Most of the toilet paper fell to the towel but some pieces still clung to the sticky wound. 

“Oh my— Went!” Maggie startled with a hand to her mouth.

“Richard, get the first aid kit from the bathroom.” His father ordered while setting down the grocery bag he’d been holding. Richie looked perplexed, this was not how he thought things would play out so quickly.

“I already looked there! Why do you think I’m holding toilet paper!?” 

“Under the sink, in the back.” His father clarified.

Richie sighed but jogged to the bathroom, flinging open the cabinet doors with frustration. Looking admittedly much harder than he had done the first time, there, under a small basket of vials and behind bottles of body wash and a jug of cleaner, was a dark, flat bag with the titular white cross on the top. He left the toilet paper in its original spot.

“It was under all this shi- crap, it wasn’t my fault I missed it! It was practically playing hide-and-seek with me!” The teen complained loudly on his way back. Wentworth was on his knees talking to the dog, who had laid down again. Talking about what, Richie couldn’t hear. Maggie was nowhere to be seen.

“Crap isn’t any better than the other word, son.” Mr. Tozier commented, looking over his shoulder. He grabbed the bag out of Richie’s extended hand, “And thank you.”

Richie watched, confused, as his father took out a roll of that stretchy, wrappable bandage but bypassed any antibiotics. The animal perked up as Maggie came from the hallway with a big, glass jar. Richie couldn’t decipher the label. 

“Alright, this is it.” She said as she kneeled alongside her husband, brandishing the jar, which was filled with what must have been some sort of ointment, to the dog.

At its mild suspicion, eyeing the jar, she caringly assured, “It’ll help a lot more than any normal medicine, promise.” 

When she smeared a generous helping of the stuff on the gashes, Dawg winced in pain, baring its teeth. Richie felt it himself, itching under his skin at the thought of the stinging, and glanced away. After minutes of soft reassurances from his mom, he eventually heard his father unwind some gauze from the roll. At Dawg’s yelp, Richie spun around and left the room altogether, feeling a little queasy. Flopping onto the couch, he fiddled with the buttons of the small, portable, baby blue cassette player he had left in the living room some time ago.

Richie got through three songs before his mother sat down beside him, tapping his shoulder lightly. Sliding his headphones off and around his neck, he looked over.

“That was very brave of you bringing him home, Richie. I’m sure it took a lot of trust.” She said carefully, like tiptoeing around the subject.

“I mean, it was harder getting it here, like, in this house, than it was getting it to follow me in the first place.” Richie shrugged, “It’s just a dog, probably a runaway or abandoned or something, it’s too friendly to be wild.” At that, his mother sighed, looking a tad conflicted.

“Honey…” Margaret hesitated, searching for the right words, “who you brought home isn’t a dog, he’s, well, he’s a werewolf.” She instead finished bluntly.

Richie almost felt his soul leave his body, “What.”

“Richie—”

God, this was so stupid. Bill had filled his head with his ridiculous theories and stories as if he even knew what he was talking about. He obviously didn't, if the same books he was obsessing over still believed silver bullets killed werewolves or that a stake to the heart was the only thing that truly killed vampires then Bill was reading lies! Silver bullets kill because they're fucking bullets! Why would stabbing the heart do anything to the undead if it's not pumping blood anymore, and therefore basically useless?

It was just fancy bullshit created by fanciful authors putting a spin on the terrible tales of ghosts and ghouls to pander to the horrified masses. It's fairy tales about fairy tales! So why was Richie suddenly filled with the urge to run?

“But it, I mean, it just looks like a dog.” He stammered, “A little big, maybe, but how is it- how is he a werewolf? How can you just tell!?” He was flustered, scared. If he had known it was a werewolf from the start he just might as well have left it in the forest as soon as he’d seen him. Pleading big, brown eyes or not, all he could think of was pointy teeth and sharp claws, tearing through flesh.

His mother desperately tried to console him, “He’s a juvenile, around your age, maybe. Richie, I'm glad you found him, he was very hurt.”

He knew that already, of course, he knew! He didn’t, he didn’t hate werewolves. Richie knew full well how much false information accumulates over centuries of existing in fairytales and cursed fables, bedtime horror stories told to naughty kids. Knew exactly how much shit they got wrong about witches firsthand. There was nothing wrong with being a werewolf, Richie knew that, but he was still afraid. After what happened to- what happened to—

“Hun, hey, breathe for me, please.” She smoothed her hand up and down his back methodically, calmingly. “In. Out. In... Out, there you go.” They sat there for a few more minutes, silent save for Richie’s robotic breathing.

“Hey,” His father spoke evenly from the living room entrance, “I got him cleaned up. He’s going to be sleeping on the pull-out downstairs for now.” He mindfully avoided Richie’s freak out that he had obviously overheard, with the kitchen being so near.

Dawg, no, whatever his real name was, had however overheard and absolutely cared. As a wolf, Richie couldn’t read his expression that well, but he seemed almost... apologetic or forlorn. And, as Wentworth led him to the basement staircase, Richie felt weird.

He felt conflicted going up to his room, wrong as the sun fully set behind the horizon.

Debated with himself for hours as he turned over and over in his bed.

When he finally fell under, he felt bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you enjoyed. Things have been pretty description heavy but I'm working on my dialogue! These two chapters were really just set up and introductions. Next chapter Stan's gonna hopefully be there in person, AS a person. Comments are much appreciated! I'd love to hear what you like, and you think might need some work :>


	3. an awkward smile with teeth too sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie learns about some magic, retrieves his bike from the woods, and he and Stan begin their friendship over a movie and some popcorn.
> 
> (Everything after "Went had already beat him to the door by the time he got back." is from Stan's perspective!)
> 
> tw: some mild language and name calling after Richie leaves to get his bike

Soft rays of otherwise blinding light woke Richie up that morning. His covers offered a paperweight of comfort to his body as he stretched his arms and felt his joints pop. The distant clatter of pots and pans from downstairs hadn’t registered as unusual yet. 

Still half-asleep, the normalcy of everything almost helped him forget the events of last night completely, tossing it aside as a weird dream, or more accurately, a nightmare. One full of giant creatures with gnashing jaws, where bloody raincoats lined the trees, and a brother who cried wolf.

It didn’t matter, this was too much thinking for a growing boy this early in the morning. What he could really do with right now was a nice piece of toast, smothered in enough butter to get a pinch on the cheek from his mother. He craved a perfectly crisp apple, hand shined and cut into neat little slices.

Rubbing guck out of his poor eyes, his thoughts finally organized themselves.

Suddenly that perfect granny smith envisioned in his mind held the reflection of a beast. One with teeth and claws and eyes of steel. Except… the eyes on this one were timid and careful. He begrudgingly reminded himself that he was dealing with just another teenager, just like all his friends. No need to bring Bill’s conspiracy theories into this. 

The ever-present ruckus from the kitchen brought Richie out of his thoughts. It had to be his mom since his dad would be out at work already. What’s so weird about a mother making breakfast?

She rarely makes anything before noon on week-days, even during summer. Richie was old enough to pour his own bowl of cereal!

But even sporadic baking episodes don’t make this much noise.

Throwing his covers off and dragging himself out of the cozy confines of his sheets, Richie got to picking out what he’d wear with the hopes of getting outside. With no one important to impress on days from June through August, he just went with whatever was on top. He ended up tan shorts, and a dark red t-shirt brandishing the iconic Thundercats logo. Sweet! 

He almost forgot his socks on the way out, stuffing the bundle into his pocket as he left his room. Richie let the smell and sound of something sizzling from the kitchen below guide him down the stairs. It made his stomach growl. He hadn’t had something _cooked_ for breakfast in quite some time, gorging on quick bowls of cheerios and a bar or two of fruity granola every morning. He had a sneaking suspicion this joyous occasion was due to the guest still recovering in their basement.

“Good morning, Richie”

“Mornin’ to ya, ma’am!” 

His lovely mother stood tending to a pan on the stove. No wonder the whole house smelt so good, she was frying up some mini sausages and scrambled eggs! The window above the sink was open, frilly, white curtains lazily swaying back and forth in the easy breeze.

Fetching his socks from his pocket Richie made the unwise decision to try putting them on standing up. He succeeded in the end, but it was a difficult endeavor that nearly resulted in his demise.

“Be a dear and cut up some strawberries.'' Mrs. Tozier asked her son when he finally finished almost falling over several times. With an exaggerated salute, he made his way to the cutting board and plastic container already set up on the counter.

“How many?”

“Oh, just use what’s left. It’s half-empty already, anyway.”

Richie went step by step with each strawberry. First, he sliced away as little of the top as he could while still getting all the yucky bits off. Then cut it into a half, and then those halves into halves. It made it seem like there were a lot more strawberries to begin with than there actually were. He was almost done finishing off some of the smaller ones when his mother brought up the inevitable question.

“So, any idea what happened over here?” Richie didn’t have to look to know what she was referring to. The burn marks weren’t the most noticeable things in the world, something that could easily be written off as a cooking accident, even! But Maggie Tozier knew better as a mother to a curious and reckless boy who just so happened to know some magic. His cutting stopped. Was there really any point in lying?

“I promise I wasn’t _trying_ to set anything on fire,” Richie said slowly, facing his mom.

“You promise, huh?”

Richie huffed, “I was trying to make one of those memory things, but— I don’t know! I misplaced something or used the wrong ingredient. I’m not really sure yet.” He swore he read everything right when he did it, double-checked all the labels, even. It wasn’t a very complicated spell to realize either, he really could not figure out what he did.

“Who was your subject?” 

Richie looked dumbfounded, “What?” Mrs. Tozer switched off the stove and turned around. Neither of them said anything. Richie felt embarrassed not knowing what he’d done.

“You should never traverse your own memories nor create ones from nothing, dear. It’s dangerous, even when you _do_ mix everything right. If anything spits flame it’s because you had no subject, it’s just energy with nowhere to go.”

“Why can’t I see into my own freaky thoughts?” Richie joked, waggling his eyebrows

She was all business, “Because without a lead, you’ll risk getting trapped in your own mind, living the same things over and over. That doesn’t sound so nice, does it?” Maggie asked rhetorically, “And they’re living memories, not just any old thoughts, Richie.”

Okay, maybe a few tiny kitchen singes were his saving grace. As much as he’d love to proudly say he’d survive, no, _thrive_ in a lifetime of his own making and memoire, it would honestly be a living nightmare. Just the thought alone of being completely isolated with only himself keeping him company made Richie want to hug someone and never let go till the day he died.

Even with the memories of his friends he could possibly successfully materialize, they would be in limited supply, and they’d never amount to the real deal. His mother must have seen the disturbed look on his face.

“Hey, now, I don’t want you looking glum on such a beautiful morning.” Margaret soothed as she walked and put a comforting hand on Richie's shoulder. “I don’t know what you need this spell for, but since I know you’ll just try again no matter what I say, how about I teach you how to properly and _safely_ perform it?” 

At Richie's excited nod, she continued “You have to promise to be patient for a day or two though. There is more to this spell than just casting it; exploring memories is a tricky thing that one could easily get lost in. I have that trip to Bangor and I don’t want to find you comatose when I get back.” It was half-joking but very serious, a stern look of concern in her blue eyes, a slight frown on her lips, and a crease between her brows. Richie hated seeing his mom so worried.

“I promise” And he meant it, wholeheartedly and completely. At that, she turned and scooped three sausages each as well as some scrambled eggs onto two plates, presumably for Richie and the werewolf. The strawberries made homes in two small, plastic bowls to not get anything of varying temperatures mixed up. 

“Would you be able to take our guest’s plate down before you start eating, dear?” He paused, and before his mother could reconsider, Richie grabbed the other’s breakfast and left for the basement without a word.

The staircase was dark and stretched steep before his feet. A dim, yellow light, and the droning voice of a man was his only motivation forward. Who was that? Was there someone there? Why’d he sound so… English?

The bottom step came all too soon. From the twin hopper windows on either end of the basement’s largest room poured the sun’s warmth, but the main source of light came from the tv pushed into a corner.

It was small and dusty as hell from living its days down here in the dark, and while Richie was the only one who used it for late-night movies kept quiet from parents or thrilling rounds of Super Mario Kart with friends, his werewolf acquaintance was putting the box to good use watching some sort of documentary. A cameraman surveyed a flock of flamingos, the birds brilliantly pink.

The plate of food was hot in his hands as he walked up to the pull-out couch the other was laying on. A large towel, frayed at the edges, covered the sheets, the off-white blanket that would usually drape the makeshift bed was folded on the floor.

Richie stood for an awkward moment, wondering where the plate could go without the risk of falling over and making a mess. He still hadn’t said anything and now the werewolf stared openly waiting for his meal.

“Sorry, hold on.” He put the dish down on the uneven layer of towel and bent to reach for something crammed between the couch and the little, mahogany side dresser next to it, “Here, so everything stays as squeaky clean as eating with no hands can be.”

Attached to the back of the board was a bag full of foam beads or something so that it stayed put comfortably molded to your lap. A _human_ lap that was. Flat on the bed it went.

“Rise and shine, my good fellow! Breakfast is served, sausage and eggs, mate!” Richie placed the plate down with much grandeur, sporting a poor imitation of the man on the tv to boot. For once, he didn’t get the dog equivalent of an eye roll.

His friend sniffed and eyed warily something on the plate as Richie watched, confused, until the other huffed in what sounded like annoyance. He stared indignantly at the boy still standing without a clue what was wrong. Oddly maneuvering his head at an angle, he nudged the edge of the plate with his nose and snout until the sausages were nearest Richie and huffed again.

“Do you… not like sausages?” A curt headshake was a clear answer.

That’s fine. He scooped them up with a tissue but didn’t know what to do after, standing awkwardly, as if waiting for someone to say something even though he was the only one capable of speaking in the room. 

“Now, these beautiful birds like to congregate in lagoons like these for easier access to shallow, saltwater prey. If you look closely, you can see ‘em picking at the water now!” Scratch that, documentary man could speak too. 

“ _Hasta luego_!” And just like that Richie spun around and marched up the stairs, clothed sausages in hand. Man, he’s been really off his game lately.

. . . . .

After finishing breakfast, he elected to retrieve his forgotten bike still in the woods. The walk there was uneventful enough, the only real standout being the lack of a giant, canine runaway.

Houses passed by in a blur, letting his guard down as he lazily realized he was almost at his destination. However, as he turned a corner, the sound of snickering and foully spat words made his heart sink. He nearly froze completely in his tracks.

Some ways down the road strode two older teenagers, inconspicuous maybe to the naked eye of an adult, but any kid in this sorry excuse of a town could recognize the Bowers gang at a mere glance.

It seemed to be Richie’s lucky day, Henry Bowers was nowhere to be seen. Funnily enough, Patrick Hockstetter wasn’t there either, another point for Richie. Patrick was fast and manic, he delighted in the chase, and was hard to trip up. They were both scary and very real threats. Unfortunately, that didn’t make these two goons a harmless obstacle either. 

The blond one sneered, “Hey! Look who it is; must be our lucky day running into four-eyes all alone!” The malice wasn’t anything new to Richie, but it still set him on edge.

While these two were no Henry Bowers, they were far from opposed to bodily harm. He ignored them.

“Think you’re too good for us, huh, Tozier?” Just keep walking.

“I think he’s running away like some wuss, Belch.” Don’t engage.

In his daze of subtly speed walking onwards, he didn’t hear the quickly approaching footsteps. Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder spinning him around, roughly. 

“When someone’s talking to you, you’re supposed to look them in the eye. Or did your loser parents never teach you any manners?” The guy's breath stank as he spat empty words and Richie imagined the smell of bleach coming off his obscenely bright, blond hair. He doubted he’d be getting out of this without saying or doing something fast.

He pretended to look confused, “Who, me? I thought you were talking to pig-face over there.” He said innocently, jerking his head to Belch Higgins, who just looked angry now. Deep down, he braced for a hit at any moment.

“Now you’re asking for it.” The bigger teen retaliated, balling his fists. Pushing Victor out of the way, he towered over Richie, an ugly snarl on his lips, cheeks red with rage. He must have hit a nerve with that one. 

It was quick, but Richie had the thought to grab onto Belch’s black Metallica shirt as a punch landed on his cheek, nearly knocking his glasses off. He’ll be feeling that tomorrow. Although winded, Richie instinctively, albeit carelessly, pulled himself closer and brought his knee straight into the other’s crotch, hard. 

The bully cursed as he stumbled, enraged, “I’ll hit you harder for that one, son of a bitch!”

“You better! You hit like a girl!” Richie went for a taunt, which was probably not the best decision on his part. And then, fixing his crooked glasses as he staggered backward, he ran. 

“Coward!” They shouted, “We’ll make sure Henry hears how much of a pussy you are!”

He heard them start chasing after as they threatened future violence, but his legs were numb as he bolted down the streets with vigor. 

Pretty quickly, the footfalls behind him faded out for good and he slowed to a halt, breathing heavily. Vic and Belch weren’t runners, especially without their leader.

However, he didn’t have much time to catch his breath when he realized where he’d ended up. The air around him seemed to disappear, the sounds of car engines and chirping, summer bugs, trailing away.

The house in front of him was large and looming, but more notably, severely falling apart. It had long been abandoned, way before Richie was ever born, and yet he’d still heard the stories. They were mostly from his parents, who knew the true extent of the tragedy, but other townsfolk believed it was haunted by malevolent spirits and avoided it like the plague. No one had ever had it demolished because of all the superstition, so, to this day, it stood tall and dying.

Despite knowing the real source of all the negative energy resonating from the now dubbed “Neibolt House,” it still gave him the heebie-jeebies. Regaining his breath, Richie took a moment to stare at the enormous building.

As the retelling from his parents goes, it once had a mind of its own, brought to life with powerful magic. When the witch that lived there was killed, the house lost its touch and consciousness, but residual magic still lingers on the grounds, even after all these years. 

Rumors of people seen walking in and never coming out are heard all the time, but no one seems to _actually_ care when they go missing. It’s just drama and cliché ridden, horror tales to tell around imaginary campfires. 

None of the losers ever came around here, even though only Richie knew why the place just felt so _off_. He doesn’t think Eddie has ever made it within a neighboring house away from this thing without choking up.

Shaking his thoughts away, he continued his trek to the woods. The left side of his face stung. His little detour wouldn’t have had him home later than expected, but after hours lost in his head walking the forest floor, pulling his bike alongside him, Went had already beat him to the door by the time he got back.

. . . . .

Waking up to the warm, shattered rays of sunlight sneaking in from dusty windows was a lot more disorienting than it should have been.

The material under his fingers felt scratchy and threadbare, and when his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the spacious room he could see the faded blue of the towel he was lying on.

Pulling himself up into a sitting position had his joints aching and he winced, simultaneously making a newly discovered mark on his forehead smart like a paper-cut. 

Stretching his arms out, he curled and uncurled his long fingers, the ends of his sleeves were dirty and uncomfortable on his wrists. He dutifully continued on to stretching the rest of his body, reaching for his toes and then pulling his arms behind his head. He was very sore, and could feel a numbness in his legs. He’d ought to get some walking in.

Pivoting his body, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and steadied himself before pushing off to stand. While securing himself with the help of the bedside drawer, he appreciated the soft, beige carpet hugging every inch of the basement floor. 

He lapped the room a few times, following the wall as best he could to help hold up what weight his sprained ankle could not bear, before finally falling back to the bed, which he only now remembered was a pull-out couch. Other memories resurfaced; yesterday's wonderful cooking, Mr. and Mrs. Tozier, their son’s apparent fear of beasts, and of course, everything leading up to him ever landing in _somewhere_ , Maine in the first place.

The glint of a shotgun’s muzzle, the thumping of heavy boots, the faint, strange smell of carnival candies.

Shaking his head of the upsetting thoughts, Stanley Uris looked down at his clothes. The ends of his pants were crusted with dirt, so were the knees. The more he looked the more out of place he felt in his skin, but a fresh change of _anything_ was more than a day's travel away and going back was against the rules anyway.

The television across the room had been turned off some time ago, but he found to not mind the silence.

Of course, his moment of reflection was immediately interrupted by bounding footfalls coming down the stairs.

“Wakey-wakey, wolfman! Boy, have I got… uh”

He stopped dead in his tracks, one foot hanging halfway down the next step. The black haired boy’s face was, for once, unreadable. To be fair, Stanley expected his own face wasn’t much to read off of either. Just as suddenly as he had stopped, Richie seemed to recover from his speechlessness, even taking a step _back_. 

“You―, you’re you! Wow!” Despite his words, he somehow didn’t sound that enthusiastic. Stan surmised the other was in some kind of shock, perhaps?

“Yes, it… appears so.” His voice sounded slightly scratchy, and he inwardly cringed at the crack in his tone. “My name’s Stanley Uris, by the way. And I know yours. No need for any… _creative_ nicknames.” Coughing into his fist, he tried to rid the tickle in his throat.

“Baby, you know all I have are creative nicknames.” Richie replied, his voice flirtatious but strained.

“Please tell me you’re just joking.”

“You wish.” Richie chuckled but that was it. It seemed he’d be carrying this conversation, though he wasn’t too disturbed. He could sense there was something more to Richie’s apprehension, something he foolishly hoped to learn of in time.

Stan broached his discomfort, “Um, I was wondering if I could borrow a change of clothes while mine are washed? I’d say we’re near the same size.” He ran the tips of his fingers over the wrinkled hem of his buttoned shirt for emphasis. 

Richie blinked away the gawking look in his eyes, “Yeah… ‘course.”

“So…?”

“Right!” Then he jumped back into action, turning and running up the stairs with as much energy as he’d had coming down. Richie was perhaps a tad odd, but Stan didn't seem to mind

As he patiently waited for his savior’s return, he found himself toying with the straggly ends of the bandage that once wrapped his leg, but now lay on top of the towel, having come loose and somehow fallen off during his transformation. Belatedly, he quietly rejoiced in the fact that his wounds had stayed miraculously undisturbed during his morning trek.

Although, however undisturbed the wound was, he would need a new, cleaner bandage. He celebrated the idea of being able to apply it himself now that his hands were once more equipped with opposable thumbs.

A pattern of footsteps he was beginning to grow familiar with could be heard going from the kitchen to the stairwell, to appearing in front of his eyes.

“I’ve hand-picked only the finest wears, your majesty.” With a medieval-type flourish and a little bow, Richie brandished a handful of clumsily folded clothes. 

“Thank you.” And as he stood, Richie held the garments out for him to take. Stan couldn’t help but think the other wanted to put as much distance between them, but that could easily be chalked up to his imagination.

He also couldn’t help but notice the bruise on the other’s cheek, but he could ask about that later. “Where might I change?” 

He cringed at his choice of words, which led him into replaying the other half of their conversation in his head. Had he sounded too formal? He knows the things he’s saying and asking for aren't inherently rude, but he also knows from experience that his voice may come off as rude no matter _what_ the words are.

Then again, Richie is also another teenager, not unlike himself, and one with a sense of humor. Maybe formalities weren’t the most important checks to uphold, at least, not when it’s just the two of them. 

The small bathroom connected to the basement was, for what a bathroom is worth, normal. That’s not to say him being there, seeing his reflection in the mirror and actually _looking_ at himself was any more bearable. The cut on his brow, his messy hair, the echoed image of the fabric sitting unpleasantly over his chest and shoulders, dirt stained and wrinkled, well… With the door closed, Stanley wasted no time changing out of his clothes. Under the sink was a first-aid kit, made of white, hard plastic and smaller than the one upstairs. Re-wrapping the wound was no trouble with human hands.

He had on a fresh pair of sweatpants, which were only a tad too long, when the white shirt Richie had lent him made him falter. Holding it up, he could clearly see where his trust had gone. Suffice to say, “hand-picked” was absolutely what Richie had done. The horned, blue-skinned creature pictured on the Little Monsters t-shirt, corny smile and side-kick kid to boot, was surely a joke. 

Although Stan would never admit it to the boy himself, Richie’s stunt did make him audibly laugh, however short and quiet it was. To anyone who knew Stanley personally, his reflection would truly be a sight to behold. This ridiculous shirt was definitely not something he’d ever imagined wearing. 

After folding his old clothes into a neat pile, he made sure to rinse that cut on his forehead. It’d been a day already, of course, but he’d feel better safe than sorry.

He tried fixing his hair into something less… _careless looking_ , but without a proper shower, some cold water to flatten his frizzled curls would have to do. At least, exiting back into the main room, he looked more presentable then when he had gone in. Richie wasn’t there anymore, but creaking floorboards from above the ceiling gave him a good idea of where to venture.

The stairs were less cumbersome with only two legs to worry about, but he had to heavily lean on the hand-rail bolted to the wall. Richie was waiting on something in the kitchen, his foot tapping to a beat no one could hear.

“How’s the fit?” Richie asked with a glance over his shoulder. Somehow, despite also wearing borrowed pants, Stanley knew he was referring to the soft, Little Monsters shirt.

“It’s not exactly my style, but they fit fine, thank you.”

“Then what is your style? I mean, I woke up this morning expecting a wolf in my basement, not a guy dressed like they planned for an office job but got caught in a dust storm.”

“I didn’t choose to get covered in dirt.” Stan justified, monotonously.

“But you chose to wear a cuffed button-up?”

“The sleeves were not cuffed—”

“Oi,” Richie finally turned around, a pouch of instant oatmeal in his grasp, “Simmer down, simmer down. I’m just messin’ with you.” He ripped the seal off the end of the bag and poured the dry oats into a bowl beside him. The shiny, silver kettle on the stove slowly started to whistle, blowing a column of steam into the air. Stanley stared as the boiling water was poured into the white, ceramic bowl, realizing how hungry he was. 

Richie asked, “Want some?” while stirring the contents of his breakfast, or was it lunch?

“What time is it?” Stanley asked instead of answering. There was a clock on the stove's surface, but it flashed the default twelve o’ clock as if the power had recently gone out. He had yet to move from his spot at the kitchen entrance, unsure of how welcome he was here with only the other teen to keep him company.

So far, their companionship hadn’t been too stellar, if you could even call it a companionship. They were acquaintances at best. Neighbours in the figurative sense, maybe. At least Richie’s parents seemed to take him in with open arms. Speaking of, where were they? He pocketed that question for later.

Richie walked away with a little “Come on.” as he passed, leading them both to the dining room. The walls were pale sunshine, and a big, bay window flanked Richies back. He pointed behind Stanley, and when Stanley turned around, the yellow, square clock hanging over him read 2:48 in the afternoon.

How on earth had he slept in so long? At home, things were so punctual, even when he had a lazy day, he’d get up early to watch the birds.

Pulling out his chair, Richie stopped abruptly, and Stan could imagine a cartoon light bulb flashing on above his head. “I almost forgot! Here,” Putting the steaming bowl down, he pulled a band-aid out of his pocket and handed it to Stan. “for your forehead.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He took the small strip appreciatively, and delicately felt for the cut with the tip of his finger while the wrist of his other hand held his bangs out of the way. Thankfully, the band-aid was a simple tan color instead of plastered with some flashy, movie reference.

Richie had sat down by now, blowing on his spoon to cool his food. When Stan was still standing by the time Richie finished his first bite, he wondered “‘You need something?”

“Yes, is there something I can eat?” 

“Well… the kettle’s still hot if you wanna match.” Richie chuckled, motioning to his cinnamon and raisin oatmeal mix. “But there’s also some mini pizzas in the freezer if you want.”

“Do you know what’s on them?”

“No idea. Haven't checked.”

“Is… is there a chance they’d be vegetarian?” Stanley shifted his weight onto his good foot, feeling selfish asking for so much, even when realistically it wasn’t that much at all. Being given a warm place to sleep and good food to eat, already felt like plenty.

“Are _you_ vegetarian?” Richie asked, not maliciously, but curiously.

“No, actually,” Stanley paused for a moment to contemplate, he was a werewolf being welcomed into a home of witches, surely this wouldn’t be a problem, “I’m Jewish, I eat kosher. When it comes to pizza, vegetarian is just easier to find than one without pepperoni, sausage, or bacon, let alone one that’s actually certified kosher.” He didn’t bother getting into details about dairy and meats being eaten together.

Thinking about it, he didn’t really feel like eating any greasy pizza right now anyway. 

"Damn, and here I was entertaining thoughts on lycanthropic vegetarianism, shame." Richie hung his head in mock sadness. 

Feeling a new confidence at Richie’s jokes, he played along, "I can't imagine a vegetarian werewolf surviving for very long." Stan tried a smile, "Imagine how sickly they'd be, they'd faint at the first mention of a hunt." 

Richie's expression faltered, just for a moment, but it was noticeable enough to Stan. He'd said the wrong thing, and soured the mood. He pressed his lips back into a thin line, suddenly hyper aware of his canines which happened to be caught on the cusp of uncanny. Too sharp under human standards, but blunter than the fangs of a blood sucker.

By the time either of them broke the silence, Richie had eaten most of his oatmeal, and Stanley had sat down across from the boy. His sprained ankle was getting the best of him. If he didn’t already have so many other questions, he’d have thought to ask for some ice and a plastic bag to help with swelling.

“We got apple’s in the fridge, if you want something, like, healthy.” Richie offered.

“Please.” Stanley readily accepted, standing up to get one himself despite the shocks of pain protesting from his foot. Looks like he’d be living some self-care days for a while, the more he moves around, the longer it’s going to take to heal.

“Bottom drawer to the left!” He was loudly instructed as he opened the refrigerator and felt around for an apple that wasn’t too bruised. After quickly rinsing his prized specimen under some cold water, he pulled the smallest knife out of the wooden block on the counter and went back to sit down. He set the apple on a napkin to save the placemat underneath from any scratches from the knife.

As Stanley measured and methodically sliced the crisp fruit into halves, then fourths, then eighths, all roughly the same size, Richie watched, entranced. It was a little distracting, being watched, but Stan had never met anyone else who had such need for precision when it came to something as ordinary as preparing a snack. Only when the core, seeds, and all the hard, inedible bits were cast aside, and Stanley finally started eating, did Richie speak up again.

“So… how do hunts work anyway?” Richie asked slowly, almost cautiously, looking into his now empty bowl. “I mean, you can’t just go out to any national park, right?” 

“We’d never hunt in a national park, Richie. That’s absurd.” He dismissively waved his hand in the air, “Besides, parks are protected.”

“We?”

“Me and my mom.”

“Oh. Is that how you got here, In Derry?”

“Something like that, I guess.” Stanley hesitated, and he was sure his discomfort was visible.

Picking at the edges of the empty napkin turned to picking at the edges of his fingernails, a habit his mother had been pushing him to kick. Stanley didn’t want to think of where his parents were right now. If they were somewhere safe, or worse.

He knew they shouldn’t be looking for him, not with the danger levels so high and not with the gathering so soon. It was only two weeks away and he did not want it jeopardized on his account.

“Well, you’re stuck with me now so don’t look so glum. ” Richie almost looked as uncomfortable as Stanley did distraught, but the black-haired teen quickly recovered a slothful smile, “Pull your face any longer and you’ll turn into a donkey.”

Stanley was skeptical, “Like Pinocchio?”

“Fuck yeah, like Pinocchio!” Richie smacked the table in excitement. Now, this enthusiasm was more genuine, lively. The dauntful questioning from only minutes prior now pushed aside, and the tension in Stanley’s shoulders slipped away. After the dishes were rinsed and left in the sink, suggestions were made to watch television. Things settled into a smooth wave of idle chatter and sly comments, mostly from Richie.

The boy couldn’t seem to decide on a channel, browsing from show to movie, to documentary, to show, the same button on the remote being clicked over and over. Sometimes Richie would backtrack to something they’d already skipped over to see if the commercials were done. 

He’d gradually lost interest in the countless clipped conversations, and started looking around the room instead. The walls wore the familiar egg-yolk yellow of the dining room, and framed, family photos littered the space. The table the television sat on had a cubby full of weathered books, some on cooking, others arts and crafts.

It was cozy; the home was lived in and rightly reflected Richie’s temperament. The colors were bright and the afternoon sun streaming in from the window made him feel warm.

Not that Stanley’s own home was some dark and decrepit hole in the ground. It wasn’t, but there, he was surrounded by tenebrous reds and greens, and old paintings with freaky faces. There were no younger siblings with light-up toys, or any pets circling the rooms and chasing their tails. It was quiet, but a good kind of quiet. Happily, he found a strange comfort in both.

“Hey, how do you feel about popcorn and a movie?” Richie asked him eventually, his eyes still glued to the tv. It’d been nearly an hour of pointless channel surfing, and Stan could go for something that lasted more than eight minutes of Richie’s attention span.

“Sure” Unfortunately, his idea of a movie was probably far different than Richie’s. He just hoped it wasn’t some cheesy comedy.

“Let’s get down to it, then!” And Richie slumped off the couch, scooting on his knees to a basket under the coffee table. It was filled to the brim with stacked vhs cases of movies, animated and live-action. A blue case was pulled out.

“I’m going to guess you aren't the romantic type, unless I’ve got that wrong?” Richie quipped, looking back at him. Stanley shook his head, blowing air out of his nose.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” He brandished the thick, plastic box in his hand, “That’s why I’ve chosen Back To The Future, a classic and a feel-good!” Richie triumphed.

“Not sure if it’s considered a classic if the film’s less than a decade old.” Stanley chimed while wiggling himself into a more comfortable position, eventually sitting cross-legged on one end of the couch. “I’ve seen it, but you can put it on.”

“Staniel, any movie I’ve bought with my own money is a certified classic on the grounds that it is now a Tozier family heirloom. Do you know how many lawns I had to mow to rack up the kind of cash for this?” Richie held up the black vhs before sliding it into the box player.

Stanley looked bewildered, “What? What did you call me?”

“Staniel, like Stan and Daniel.” Richie explained, appointing a name to each of his pointer fingers respectively and bringing them together, signifying their horrific, phonetic union, “Why, would Stanathon be better? And hey, if you dream a little bigger, we can merge the two and I can call you Stathaniel!” He was beaming now.

The person in question groaned, “Please don’t, just Stan or Stanley is fine.”

“Right,” Richie didn’t look convinced, “Stanny it is.”

And though he looked defeated, the blond was glowing on the inside. Back in Georgia, he didn’t have many close friends, and certainly none that he’d ever grown so quick to speak this easily with. There were still some bumps here and there, and they’ve basically only known each other for half a day, if that, but Richie understood him more than most people on a base level. Yes, he was a witch and Stanley was a werewolf, but that just gave them grounds to relate on. Despite Richie’s nuisances so far, Stanley hoped to get to know him better, and hopefully in less dire circumstances.

The television screen went blank before the cassette started humming in the machine, and the programmed advertisements blasted out of the speakers.

Instead of sitting back onto the couch, Richie walked out of the room and into the kitchen, Stanley hobbled quickly behind.

A bag of Pop Secret’s was pulled out of a cabinet, and Richie threw it into the microwave. The small space inside was flooded with orange light as the bag began to spin. Other than the rising, bouncing song of the kernels, there was no flaunting or grandiose speeches.

Stan took in the stagnant atmosphere of the kitchen. "Is it always this quiet?"

"Nah," Richie lifted himself onto the counter's surface, opened the cupboard nearest behind him, and started rummaging through the highest shelf, "my mom’s out in Bangor for the day and my dad's a very popular man! More sweet-toothed devils than dentists, I suppose." His stray hand came back with a rather large bowl.

It was decorated with cartoonish, yellow wheat fields and had a bold lined cow at the bottommost center. Stan could see the plastic bowl wasn't the only one the Toziers had up in the cabinet big enough for a full bag of popcorn, but he could only guess the childish design made it Richie's favorite. It was almost endearing.

By the time the popcorn had been cooled and dumped into the bowl, the previews were done playing and the title selection screen ideled, waiting for the duo. Richie took the corner opposite of Stan’s, and placed the bowl on the middle cushion between them.

The time-bending adventures of Marty McFly and Dr. Brown were engaging enough even if he'd already seen the film, but it didn't seem to hold Richie's attention for very long. Stanley flinched as a small piece of popcorn hit the side of his face, he could hear the snickering before he even turned his head.

Sparing the teen an accusatory glance, he stared at the popcorn that had fallen between two couch cushions with disdain. While distracted, another kernel bounced off his hair and fell to the floor in several hops.

This time, Richie's face was split with a smirk of challenge, yet another popcorn piece held between his thumb and pointer finger already. He was not above bringing his arms up to defend himself.

"You're wasting popcorn." 

"Not if you catch them." 

Stanley stared, incredulously. Richie was facing him completely now, his legs brought up in front of him. Without warning, Richie launched the piece he had in his hand, hitting Stanley on the forearm where they were up in front of his chin.

Meanwhile, Doc explains a lightning bolt is the only source capable of generating the required 1.21 gigawatts of power for time travel. When Richie makes a quick grab for more ammunition, Stanley goes to do the same. They end up in a stand still, guns at the ready, the promise of a magnificent lighting strike at the fictional town's courthouse does nothing to lower the stakes.

A moment of reflection passes, "I...I'm not going to throw this." Stanley lowered the popcorn instead, and turned back to the movie, "It'll only encourage you."

Richie laughs out loud, self-satisfied, "You say that as if your surrender will do anything but." He had the courtesy of waiting for the other to respond instead of continuing the assault.

Weighing the piece of popcorn in his palm, Stanley eyed him with a measured look, “Maybe so.” After another moment of calculation, he delivered a shot smack in the middle of Richie’s forehead. The teen howled in mock pain, seizing his heart.

The wounded reached into the air, “I see… a light…” and then went limp, his arm slapping against his stomach. Richie's final breath punched out of his chest in a groan, his tongue stuck out of his mouth. Stanley was in disbelief. At least the popcorn was staying _in_ the bowl. Neither of them said anything, the movie playing on despite their show-stopping performance.

“Come on.” Stanley tried, tone flat, shaking the other’s ankle. The taller’s feet had pushed up against his thigh in the drama, and he hadn’t quite decided if he was comfortable with it yet or not. “Quit being so dramatic, Rich.”

The boy in question perked up, “Look at that, you’re calling me ‘Rich’ already! My charm must really be rubbing off on you.” Richie fondly said, nodding wisely. He sat up fully, pulling his legs back in and settling into a criss-cross-applesauce position similar to Stan’s.

This time, Richie seemed to pay more attention to the movie and conversation was reduced to off-hand comments from the boisterous teen and small smiles from Stanley. It was nearing the climax of the movie when Richie spoke up again.

“What’s your favorite color?” He chirped from where he had slouched down almost completely, having propped his feet up on the little, light grey ottoman.

“Baby blue. Why do you ask?” Stanley turned to look at him.

“Cute. Hoping to break the ice.” Richie shrugged, slinking down the couch even further, “Mine’s yellow, by the way, thanks for asking.”

“Have we not… broken the ice?”

“Okay, so I know your name and your favorite color. If we’re gonna be roomies, you’re going to have to give me a little more, Stanny” He looked over and smiled.

Stan thought for a moment, “What is… your favorite animal?”

“Easy; snakes! I got one upstairs, her name’s Bessie and she’s a real beauty. I’ll have to show her to you later.” Richie was enthralled, and even though he wasn’t the fondest of reptiles, he’d let Richie prattle on about his ‘baby angel’ just to see him so happy.

“Well, I don’t think I have a _favorite_ animal, there are so many, but I do like the Yellow-billed magpie. I’ve never actually seen one in person because they only live in California, but the ones I’ve seen in books are really pretty.” He was afraid of boring the other, but Richie looked invested, “Did you know they perform funerals when one of their own dies?”

Richie was astounded, “No shit?”

This was exhilarating, “It’s fascinating behaviour, isn’t it?” He’d never found someone so genuinely interested in his bounty of knowledge on birds, other than Patty of course, but she was all the way in another state. “Your turn, now.”

“Right, right.” Richie tapped his chin, “Oh! When’s your birthday, dude?”

“13th of July, it’s coming up.” 

“Ah, the good old days. I remember when I was that young.” 

“Wh— Well, when’s _your_ birthday?”

“Already passed, 7th of March.” Richie stated proudly, like showing off the scratch-and-sniff sticker on a test he just aced.

“How do you know I’m not already older than you?”

“Are you sixteen?”

Stanley sighed, “...No.” 

“Ha! That gives me the right to authority.”

“More like the right to senior citizenship.” He muttered. And while Richie guffawed at his sheer audacity, he thought of his next question. His family was used to going on trips for the monthly meetings held in secret for the creatures who knew of its existence; he wondered if the Tozier’s did the same, though maybe not for the same reason.

“Have you always lived in Derry?”

“Born and raised! Farthest I’ve been out of town is Indiana and that was a while ago.” Richie stretched his arms up and over his head, leaning back with a sigh of satisfaction.

“I’ve lived in Georgia for most of my life, but we travel a lot.”

“The Peach state, huh? Um, if you travel with your parents, do you… know where they are?”

Stanley sobered, “I don’t like that question.” 

“Okay, well, how’d you get hurt then?

“How did _you_ get hurt?” Stan stubbornly countered.

“I asked you first, dude.”

He stopped himself from saying ‘I asked you second,’ that would’ve just been childish. Crossing his arms, he peeked at the tv and saw that the movie was just ending, and it’d be rude to leave Richie hanging. His eyes didn’t leave the television screen as he answered.

“I fell down a hill, a steep one. I remember there were a lot of rocks and branches, something must have nicked me pretty bad.”

“Was that where I found you?”

“Things are a little hazy, but no.” He slumped his shoulders down, “I hadn’t been there very long, where you found me.” The credits had begun to roll onto a black screen, the names dancing in his vision as he lied, not about being on that hill, but about things being blurry. He remembered every second of it; the running and the fear.

Stanley promised himself he’d tell the truth soon enough, but now was not the time. He needed time.

“Derry isn’t some hidden, middle-of-nowhere paradise where you wave ‘good mornings’ to your neighbors on the week-days and attend barbeques on the week-ends. It’s a mindless shithole where nobody ever cares unless you don’t fit in, then they hate you.” Richie met his eyes, suddenly very serious, “I know you haven't been here very long, been around town even less, but there are some real unsavory faces walking these streets that would prefer you dead than alive.” A minute passed as he let things set in before clarifying, pointing to his bruised cheek, “You asked.”

“Thank you.” Stan assured, earnestly, “For telling me, I mean.”

They both turned back to the film as the last of the credits passed them by, and the screen held a staticky black for a good while, before three intriguing words begged the question.

“To be continued?” The blond inquired with an unsure smile.

“I… don’t have part two if that’s what you're asking.” 

“Unfortunate. I haven't seen it.”

“Well—” Richie sagged off the couch like a snake onto his knees, wobbling around the ottoman to the tv and popping the vhs out of the machine, “We’re just gonna have to find something else to watch then!” The movie basket was unveiled once more, and it felt nice bickering back and forth on what to put on next. He liked Richie. No matter what wrong foot they’d gotten off to in the beginning.

Sadly, it only reminded him he wasn’t going to be here forever. He'll have to come clean, sooner or later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! It's been a while, I know. I hope whoever has been loyally waiting for this to come out enjoyed this one, it was longer than the first two chapters combined! Please rest assured that no matter how long a chapter takes to write, this story isn't on hiatus or discontinued unless I formally say so. Also, here's Mike with some flowers I drew inspired by his love for plants in this fic https://www.instagram.com/p/CLIvtbzFqHn/


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